Tremble
by girl-of-many-faces
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes had first looked at 221a Baker Street he had been told that it was unavailable and so had settled for 221b instead. It wasn't long, however, before the secrets of 221a pulled him and John right into one mess of a mystery.
1. Tremble

**AN /: Just a quick not to get us started, this chapter skims the events of the first season of Sherlock, and contains spoilers for all three episodes. Other than that it's pretty tame but rating may go up later. For now though, enjoy :)**

**Disclaimer:** 'Sherlock' and all characters within belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I'm just taking them for a joyride, I make no profit from this.

_**Tremble**_

For the most part, she hasn't paid any attention to the various tenants who have moved in and out of 221 Baker Street over the years. A lot of the tenants were so preciously boring that she hasn't felt like gracing them with her presence, and so she stays holed up in 221a at the top of the stairs, keeping the door locked and only venturing out when she needs to buy vital supplies like milk or water paints. Eventually she just stopped caring about her neighbours, letting them go about their business and keeping out of their way. Both the previous landlord and the current landlady had managed to leave her alone, which is nice. 221a was still her apartment, regardless of whether she paid rent or not, and not once has she been threatened with an eviction.

It just so happened, of course, that one potential tenant catches her interest. She has known for quite some time that someone would eventually rouse her from her state of indifference, but this new tenant is quite unlike anything she had expected.

Although her front door is quite sturdy it is not at all soundproof, and the first time she catches news of this new potential tenant is when the man himself is standing outside the door, talking to Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson is telling him that 221a was not available to rent, and hadn't been since she had bought the building from the previous landlord some twenty years ago. There was a thin excuse about not being able to find the key, and then she pushes the conversation to other topics, bless her. The man seems disappointed and instead begins to question about 221b, but as she continues to listen, her ear pressed flat against the splintering wood, it becomes apparent that he likes the flat downstairs enough to rent anyway and the matter of 221a was dropped completely. He mentions something about another flatmate to share with him, but this matters little to her. As far as she is concerned at the moment, he is just the same as the others, mundane and not worth her time.

When she first hears the dreadful wail of an abused violin from the flat downstairs, she actually considers scaring the other man away. It is one thing to be mundane, but it is another altogether to be a highly irritating mundane.

From what she has heard, listening to Mrs Hudson as she mutters to herself in the hallway, the new tenant has yet to find his flatmate but has moved right in. And so she decides to wait, to see what the other flatmate brings to the situation with the man downstairs, and to hope that there will be no more violin at three in the morning.

Every now and then for the next three days she hears the new tenant downstairs shout things. They sound like demands, but as they never concern her she never listens. It is the one about ice that catches her interest finally though.

"Mrs Hudson,' comes the silky baritone voice as it drifted up through the floorboards,' do you have any ice?"

"I have a whole tray full of ice cubes-" Mrs Hudson starts, and she hears her walk up from the apartment downstairs, but the new tenant cuts her off with a curious remark.

"Not what I need,' he says lightly,' I need enough to fill up a bathtub."

That was where she had really started to listen. There was something to that voice, to the way he explains very carefully why the ice cubes were needed to fill the bathtub because the fridge isn't long enough to hold a human arm, and she is compelled to listen to it. The man is smart, she guessed that much by how grammatically correct his sentences are, and he seems to be some kind of scientist judging by all this talk of experiments.

_Maybe he's worth my interest after all,_ she thinks as she moves from her place at the door to her favourite spot behind her easel and picks up a brush.

Somehow, it isn't until the fourth day after his initial arrival that she learns his name. She must have missed it in the general conversation of flat ownership, and she is quite peeved about that.

It is about twenty past two in the morning when she opens her apartment door and quietly traverses the rickety staircase, moonbeams falling at her feet from the thinly curtained windows. The door to 221b is open and she walks forwards, cautiously sticking her head in through the doorframe. She isn't worried about being seen, she never is, so she walks forwards and leans comfortably against the doorframe and observes the man sprawled over the couch in front of her.

He is so incredibly thin, all lines and angles, and the blue dressing gown that he wears hangs off his lanky frame like it is several sizes too big. One arm rests over his chest, his tapered fingers splayed over his collar bone, and the other is hanging off the couch. His legs just reach the other end of the couch, and one of the lanky limbs is in the process of sliding to the floor. He looks quite angelic like this, but what is really quite stunning about him is his skin.

As an artist she sees the world in a peculiar fashion. Everything she lays eyes on is for a single instant warped into a painting in her mind before shifting back to normal, and as her vision of the scene in front of her shifts in her mind she sees the contrast in him, in his body and his being. His black hair, so black that it almost seemed to have shades of blue streaked through it, and blue dressing gown were at odds with the absurd paleness of his skin, almost a porcelain white in the dim light. His body, all harsh planes and straight lines, was so beautifully different from the softness she saw in his unguarded, sleeping face, and the slight curve of smiling lips. The unmasked happiness of a dreamer.

There is something in him that is very incredibly attractive. It is hard to place, but she knows that this is a man who would have both women and other men falling at his feet. He has a strangely androgynous look, and cheekbones that any model would die for. She wonders if this man has a girlfriend, or even a boyfriend, but drops the idea immediately. There is nothing personal about this apartment, no photos, no cards, no random knick knacks given by family and friends. Everything has some sort of scientific intent, and it is conceivable that he is most likely married to his work.

When he shifts restlessly she moves from the doorframe, walking across the floorboards and carpet to look around inside the flat. It is covered in newspapers and scientific equipment, every spare space being used. She is tempted to go and look into the bathroom, just to see if he has accumulated enough ice for his severed arm.

On the table next to the sleeping man she sees a laptop, its screen still lit and a website displayed proudly. A title at the top of the webpage reads _The Science of Deduction_, and is followed by a description of the website owner's amazing abilities of deduction, which seems just a little pretentious. Beside the laptop are three letters, each of them addressed to one 'Sherlock Holmes'. Seeing as the same name is written on the website, she assumes that Sherlock Holmes is in charge of it, and that it is Sherlock Holmes who is asleep on the couch.

She puts the laptop down and heads towards the door after having discovered all she needs to know about him, her feet silent against the floorboards, and as she passes through the doorframe the man's eyes burst open and he jumps from the lounge. She turns to watch as he frantically looks about for his laptop, apparently failing to see it in front of his face, muttering something about ladders and gardens.

She begins to walk silently back to her flat as the man finds his laptop with a shout and begins to type furiously with one hand, texting on a sleek mobile phone with the other. It seems to her that her new flat mate has more on his mind than he knows what to do with, and with a brain that active, she can only feel sorry for poor Sherlock Holmes.

She doesn't exactly 'meet' Doctor John Watson, more overhears the conversation as he talks awkwardly downstairs with Sherlock. His voice is a world of difference to the silky baritone that she is just becoming used to, but sounds pleasant enough that she doesn't really mind. Where Sherlock has a voice that is so seductive that it could, and does, manage to make an incredibly grisly murder sound fantastic, the new man has a voice that encourages you to agree with everything he says. Where Sherlock sounds sexy, he sounds nice.

She only listens to their conversation for a little while before she hears Sherlock leave, and then return a minute later to spirit the new man away with him. She is a little depressed when he leaves, as she was having fun listen to him talk. He talks like he doesn't need to breathe, and sometimes she is sure that he actually doesn't.

She hears from the conversation downstairs that her new flatmate was a military man, and she has always been fascinated by military men. They always have hidden depths to them, secret fears and burdens, and just as many amazing stories. For the first time in a long while she considers actually leaving the apartment and going to meet this military man face to face, but when a police squad clambers its noisy way up the stairs she decides that it's best to save it for another time.

The conversations that follow when Sherlock and John find that the police are conducting a drugs bust downstairs tell her more about her new flatmates than she could ever tell by just looking at the contours of their faces.

What is most apparent though, is that Sherlock is a genius, a complete and utter genius. Socially inept he may seem to be, but she is hardly one to judge. As she listens to his amazing deductions float up through the floorboards she begins to wonder if she has finally, after all this time, found the person that she has been looking for.

Over the next few weeks she leaves the new tenants to their own devices. She has taken a liking to just lying on the floorboards with her ear pressed to the wood, listening to them talk. It is very amusing hearing their domestic arguments, probably because a lot of them involve where it is and is not appropriate to store both human and animal body parts. Hearing Sherlock try to reason with John is the best entertainment that she has had in years.

She takes a liking to John. She has yet to see him, but he seems like a rational, sensible man with the patience of a saint. He puts up with Sherlock's outbursts of genius, destructive and offensive tendencies, and all of his other idiosyncrasies as if it is nothing out of the ordinary. It doesn't seem like he appreciates a lot of said idiosyncrasies of course, but it is nice to hear him patiently asking why there are dried frogs in the cupboards every now and then. Anyone else, she surmised, would have moved out within the first week of living with the hellish madman, but it did seem like John was there to stay.

Of course, when she has grown a well-founded affection towards John Watson she is understandably miffed when members of a smuggling ring knocked him out cold and dragged his girlfriend away screaming. She wishes she could have helped him, wishes she had known in advance that the flat was about to be invaded, but it did feel satisfying to knock one of the assailants out with a frying pan when he broke into her flat, presumably looking for more hostages.

When Sherlock has left to go and rescue John and his girlfriend she drags the man out into the street and phones the police, and then retreats back to Sherlock's flat and watches through the window as the police arrest a small man tied to a pole, out cold with a large lump on his forehead. She is been particularly amused when one of the three police officers finds the neatly written note that she had taped to the man's forehead, watching his baffled face as he reads her clear account of the kidnapping and then proceeded to call Scotland Yard.

Later she pops back into 221b when Sherlock and John had spirited out on another investigation, removing some of the worms that Sherlock had put into John's favourite mug without telling him, washes the mug three times and then puts it neatly back, and also removing a jar of live spiders from John's sock drawer while she is at it. It is the least she can do.

The whole fiasco with Moriarty is one that she could have done without. The explosion from the flat opposite shocks her and the noise assaults her ears, and she isn't too happy that someone has broken into one of the flats downstairs without her noticing because she knows _everything_ that goes on in this flat. But it is after Sherlock and John return home after their frightful night at the swimming pool that she feels the most attached to them, with more affection than she has felt for anyone for years. She lies on the floor and listens to them all day and night, catching snippets of the story, and with each piece to the puzzle she hears the more her heart goes out to them.

Sherlock doesn't say a word for two whole days afterward, and John just sleeps the entire thing off. She spends what feels like hours listening to them, hearing their half whispered thoughts about their impending death by Moriarty's hands, about how John had pushed Sherlock into a pool as the bomb had gone off, saving them both. And as she listens, she could have sworn that she could hear Sherlock's brain ticking as he sifts through links and leads that could eventually result in their safety.

There hasn't really been much that she could do about their problem. She hasn't a clue whom Moriarty is, aside from what she hears them say, and she doesn't know the first thing about detective work, so instead she tries to help in the little ways. She tunes Sherlock's violin whenever he is out, washes a few of John's sweaters for him, and even steals a few biscuits from Mrs Hudson's secret stash and leaves them neatly lined in the tin for John to discover whenever he arrives back home.

She listens as they heal, and she wishes them all the best.

She hasn't even realised that she has never laid eyes on John until she ventures out of her flat one night to check on the strange scratching noises that she has been hearing for the past few minutes.

When she walks into the apartment it takes her only a moment to notice that Sherlock is absent, and it takes her only a few more to find a shoebox full of cockroaches under the table. She wrinkles her nose in disgust as she leaves it there with a large post-it-note for John's convenience, and then jumps as she hears the loud snore echo through the kitchen.

Curious, she follows the sound to a bedroom lit only by the moonlight and streetlights outside seeping through the curtains and the clock on the bedside table flashing red numbers at her. And on the bed is the man that she knows so well, but has never laid eyes on before.

John Watson is lying on the bed, his baggy old shirt and pants visible where he has kicked back the sheets. There is sweat on his brow and the front of his shirt is damp. His mouth is curved into a frown, and she can tell from the way that he shifts restlessly that he is having a nightmare. For a moment, in her artist's mind's eye, a portrait of the weary soldier appears, all soft lines and curves. Not that he is curvy exactly, or even pudgy really, but when compared to Sherlock he is definitely more round.

She looks over him and begins to see the contrast that he is to Sherlock. Most noticeably he is a great deal shorter, and where Sherlock is pale and raven haired John is sandy blonde and is still tanned from Afghanistan. He has little to none of Sherlock's severe lanky build, and is quite stocky and well built. At least she won't worry about him breaking after a single punch. He has no contrast on his own to speak of; his features fit and complement each other in an endearing yet handsome way.

John mutters something and rolls over onto his side, and as she stands in the doorway she feels sorry for him. His nightmares really must not be fun.

As she walks away quietly she makes up her mind. One day she will meet these men face to face instead of when they are at their most vulnerable. One day she will meet them, talk to them even, and although she hasn't talked to anyone in years she thinks that she is still able to. Yes, one day, soon, she will meet them, and they will help her find her bones.

End- Part One


	2. Gather

**AN /: A big thank you to everyone who reviewed, I'm really grateful and surprised that anybody bothered to read my story at all. Incorporating the supernatural into Sherlock is difficult to manage in a believable way, but I'm trying my best. So again, thank you, and I hope you enjoy the next chapter :)**

O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O

_**Tremble-**_

_**Ch 2. Gather**_

It has been a month after Moriarty when she decides to finally meet Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, and suddenly she is flustered for two reasons. The first is because it has been so long that she has talked to anyone before, and it is difficult to organise her thoughts into sentences when there is so much that she wants to say. She has practised a few times, talking to herself in front of a dirty mirror that really needs a thorough scrub, but the sound of her own voice disturbs her after years of silence and she doesn't practise for long.

The second is because she has no idea _how_ she is going to meet them. She wants it to be casual, nothing more than a quick hello, just to test the waters and not raise suspicions. If she comes straight out about what she is she'll probably scare them off and end up being well and truly bored for the next few years.

She thinks of various scenarios for the grand meeting, discarding a few but keeping some to mull over. Her favourite by far is the notion of waiting for John to arrive at the flat after he arrives home from his work, a pile of books stacked up past her face, timing her exit with the sound of him walking up the stairs and then bumping into him by accident on her way down. Although it is better than one of her original ideas of just standing in the doorway and waiting for Sherlock to notice her it seems a bit too romantic and cliché to really achieve, so she lets the idea slide. Eventually she settles on the idea of just popping in to borrow some milk, because that seems like it would be accepted as a reasonable course of action for a flatmate to take.

And then that was it, a simple, effective plan of action that would take only a few minutes at best, to see if she was still capable of social interaction and to finally meet these men.

In the darkness of her flat, she sits on the moth-eaten couch and smiles, waiting for the sun to rise.

O.o.O.o.O

It is eight in the evening when she gathers the courage to open her door and take a step out onto the staircase. Her stomach is filled with butterflies and she can hardly think straight, because it has been years since she has been in any sort of living company and she is still trying to remember how to talk normally, without having odd pauses between words. For a moment she worries about looking too pale, but then thinks of Sherlock and shrugs the worry off.

Downstairs she can hear John talking to Sherlock about his most recent date with Sarah. Sherlock is making noncommittal noises from somewhere in his throat, and John is trying to start a conversation because there is nothing good on the telly. She listens to them for a few minutes more as she calms herself, and then walks down the stairs, down the hall, and knocks at the doorframe.

She can see John sitting in an armchair by a table just around the corner, typing slowly on the laptop in front of him. He looks up at the knock, and a perplexed half smile appears on his face, as if he is unsure whether to welcome her in or check her for guns. He probably has every right to be suspicious of her, though, considering what he gets up to with Sherlock on a daily basis. For his part, Sherlock does not react at all to her arrival. He is lying on the couch, a phone in his hands, his fingers flying. His attention is focused solely on the phone so it is plausible that he hasn't seen her, but if he is the master of deduction that he claims to be he still would have heard her knock.

She is so busy wondering if Sherlock has noticed her or not that she fails to hear John when he says something to her.

"Pardon?" she says apologetically, marvelling at the sound of her own voice, which she doesn't remember being quite so deep. John smiles patiently at her, closing the laptop lid, and she fights the urge to stare as his whole face curves into the smile that has probably reassured hundreds of patients.

"Um, can I help you?" John replies, his eyebrows beginning to slant downwards in the middle. She has to struggle to remember why she is pretending to be here again.

"Yes,' she finally manages to spit out,' I've run out of milk and I'd just like to borrow- oh, sorry, I should mention that I live in the flat above you."

"Right, of course... um..." John replies, seeming happy with her excuse, but he looks as if he's waiting for something. She stares back at him, oblivious.

"Your name?" John prompts, and she mentally kicks herself into gear. It has been so long that she has nearly forgotten it, and she struggles to bring it to the front of her mind.

"Miriam,' she replies,' but I prefer Mim. It sounds less ancient." Johns smile is still friendly and so she allows herself to relax, willing the throbbing in her mind to stop.

"Nice to meet you, Mim,' John nods at her, probably assuming that she is a bit of an airhead, and tells her that she can borrow anything she'd like whenever she needs it, with particular emphasis on the words 'anything for a fellow flatmate'. Sherlock makes a peculiar noise that sounds like a laugh concealed within a cough. She reassures John that she knows where the kitchen is, and then quickly covers for herself with a quick half-truth of having lived at Baker Street long enough to know how to find the fridge. John accepts the story but follows her to the fridge anyway, because he is not a sociopath like his roommate and he doesn't mind the odd bit of chatter.

"So, how long have you lived at Baker Street for?" he asks her as she goes to open the fridge, and she notices out of the corner of her eye as he wipes something red from the kitchen table with the cuff of his shirt. She hopes its jam.

"About as... long as these look like they've been festering in here for,' she replies, holding out a Petri dish containing a blue liquid that seems to be growing its own ecosystem. John looks exasperated as takes the Petri dish out of her hand, putting it on a lower shelf where it is obscured by a few vegetables.

She withdraws the milk and then closes the fridge door and leans against the kitchen table, starting to be drawn into conversation with the army doctor. She listens, marvelling at how much she has missed having a proper conversation as the pair of them swap anecdotes of their past. When she broaches the topic of his day job John does not mention any of the details that she has heard him talk about before, mentioning only Sherlock works with the police, that he does a lot of running in his spare time, and that having Sherlock as a flatmate keeps you on your toes. She even manages to pry a war story out of him after he mentions his career in the army, one about how he saved the life of a young man only because he had been calm enough to drag him away from enemy fire while the man was bleeding to death. She is, of course, totally aware that her mouth is probably hanging just a little bit open, but cannot bring herself to close it.

When he asks her about her life, she admits that she doesn't get out much and remarks that she would love to join him on one of his adventures. His face looks a bit more serious when he tells her she's better off just reading his blog if she wants an adrenaline fix, and the brief awkward silence that follows rings in her ears. Eventually, after she glances at a clock on the wall opposite and realises that she has been listening to John's stories for half an hour she decides to excuse herself. Although she has enjoyed this wonderfully mundane snippet of life, she really should not be pushing her luck right now.

As she walks to the door John tells her that she can keep the milk, as it will be off the next day and he wasn't going to use it for anything, and she grins back at him and says she will. As she reaches the doorframe she eyes the smiling face that has been spray painted onto the wall in a violent yellow colour, and suddenly the gunshots that she keeps hearing at all hours of the day make a bit more sense.

"So, see you later then,' John says as she stands in the door frame again, that pleasant smile back on his face. She looks over at Sherlock, half expecting him to at least make a noise to recognise her departure. He is still lying on the couch, his eyes closed and his phone resting on his chest, moving up and down as he breathes. He glances up at her and although the rest of his face betrays little emotion she notices that his lips are ever so slightly curved into a smile and there is a look in his eyes that she can't describe, something that makes them twinkle with delight. Suddenly she begins to feel uneasy, as if she is a lab rat and he wants to dissect her.

"John,' Sherlock says quietly in such a low tone that it probably had the power to make an entire group of feminist extremists swoon,' have you noticed anything... odd about the hand of your friend from upstairs?"

John gives him a puzzled look but glances down at her hands anyway and then lets out a sharp yelp as if he has been poked with a branding iron somewhere uncomfortable. Fearing the worst, she looks down at her hand and realises that it has become insubstantial, and that some of her fingers have quite obviously begun to disappear into the milk bottle. Damn, she thought that had stopped happening ages ago. She drops the bottle and recoils, her fingers covered in the almost off milk, and she wipes it hurriedly against her paint-splattered jeans. The milk bottle crashes to the ground and the top comes loose, spilling milk over the old red rug and floorboards, but nobody seems to have noticed.

"Oops?" she says meekly, berating herself for slipping up and hoping she hasn't pushed the one man that she needs away, but Sherlock simply presses the tips of his fingers together as if he is about to pray, and gives her a small grin.

O.o.O.o.O

John doesn't know where to stare. He wants to stare at Sherlock, because that's what he usually does when Sherlock says something amazing and it's becoming a habit now, but he also wants to stare at Mim because he's never seen a ghost before. Was she even a ghost? It is the first word that has jumped into his head, and judging by her ability to phase through objects and her pale skin it seems like a good guess. He has never believed in ghosts personally, thinking them a load of rubbish, and yet he has possibly just been chatting to one for half an hour. He blinks and stares at her again, taking in her features. She is pale and thin, but after living with Sherlock that is not something he considers out of the ordinary. She does look a bit drained, though.

Nothing about her is bright. Her eyes are the colour of thunder clouds and her hair is a washed out blonde that hangs loosely past her shoulders, and even the paint splatters on her jeans look like they have all been mixed with grey to mute their vibrancy. She doesn't look exactly as 'ghostly' as he would have expected, but she doesn't exactly look alive. Ghost is probably a safe bet then.

John is also the first to notice that the milk is beginning to sink into the floorboards, and with a sigh he goes off to find something to clean it up with, because if he doesn't then it will be absorbed into the floorboards and possibly be experimented on later. In any case, it will smell horrible for weeks.

"So, are you a ghost?" Sherlock asks, lifting himself from the couch with feline grace and not seeming to notice that his phone has just hit the floor. Without his bulky coat, Sherlock's well tailored shirt and trousers make him look painfully thin, and John realises just how ridiculous it is that a dead girl actually looks healthier.

"There's no point in trying to lie to you, is there?" Mim replies, the deer-in-the-headlights look disappearing from her face as if someone has drawn her a new one. The surprised look is now replaced with determination, and her jaw is clenched tightly.

"Not really, no." Sherlock says in reply, his eyes bright with curiosity. It is like Christmas has come early, and John suddenly wonders if ghosts can be dissected.

"You're not haunting us, are you?" John asks as he walks back into the room, beginning to suspect that his life has just turned from some kind of murder drama into a supernatural fantasy. He's not sure which one is more absurd, really. "I mean, it would be a bit cliché, being haunted by the ghost from the old, spooky abandoned flat upstairs."

"No, but I can if you want me to." Mim replies with a sad smile.

"Thanks but no thanks,' John says as he bends down with a handful of paper towels,' I already have enough dead body parts turning up all over the place, I don't think I could cope if you started adding unpleasant things to them in an attempt to scare visitors."

Mim drops to her knees as he bends down, reaching a hand out towards the one of the cloths that John is holding.

"Let me help,' she says, her expression determined.

"I can handle it, its fine." John replies.

"Its fine, really, I'm used to being domestic."

John looks at Mim hesitantly before handing over another wad of paper towel cloth. His eyes flicker back up to Sherlock, watching at the taller man tapping furiously at the keypad on his phone. He is unsure if Sherlock has anymore questions, because he has that detached look in his eyes now, the one that suggests that he is in deep thought. It takes them a minute or two to clear the milk in silence, and another minute for Sherlock to start asking questions again.

"How old are you?" Sherlock says, and Mim blinks.

"Eighty."

"No, how old were you when you died."

"Twenty one." Mim's face darkens, and she looks at the floorboards.

"Do you want to sit down, then,' John says,' I'd, ah, love to hear about life as a ghost. Or death as a ghost. Whichever you prefer."

Sherlock still hasn't taken his gaze of Mim, probably trying to deduce and discover why she has been living upstairs and, more importantly, if she can be of any use to him during a case. It would probably be very handy to know someone who can walk through walls, it would save them a lot of trouble. When Mim looks over at John he gestures towards the chair he had been sitting in but she walks over to lean against the table in the middle of the room. He is absolutely sure that he isn't imagining her thighs sinking through the wood. John glances over at Sherlock again and now the consulting detective is leaning forwards, his elbows pressed into his knees, his fingers pressed to his lips, his brain whirring at an almost audible speed.

"Exactly how long have you been a ghost?" Sherlock asks as John takes a seat in his chair again, and Mim looks up to the ceiling as she thinks.

"Fifty nine years this Saturday." she replies, and Sherlock lets the information sink in.

"What can't you do." Sherlock says, and John prepares himself for a rapid-fire game of twenty questions.

"I can't eat and I can't drink, if I try the food just stays in my stomach and I have to throw it up or it'll just fester. I have no heartbeat either, and I don't need to breathe." Mim replies back almost as quickly.

"What _can_ you do?"

"In my flat, just my flat and nowhere else, it's almost like I'm human. I can touch things, see, smell, hear, I can do all of that. When I venture out of the flat I start behaving a bit more ghostly, and if I'm not careful I can fall through floors. You saw what happened with the milk, that was because I lost myself. I can become invisible and unnoticeable if I really want to, I could waltz right into your apartment and you'd never know."

"Are you the one who keeps refilling the biscuit tin?" John asks suddenly, and Mim gives him a nod. Sherlock just gives him an exasperated sigh.

"Back to my questions,' Sherlock says,' can you be hurt?"

"You could shoot me right now but I'd ever feel it."

"You know this from experience, don't you?"

"A man broke in a few years back. I tried to shoo him off and he shot me in the stomach. I can tell you now, it was a lot easier sending him off than finding a way to get rid of the bullet."

"Fascinating... if I were to shoot you again, say, in the head, would you still be... sentient?" Sherlock asks.

John feels a sudden sympathy for the poor ghost girl as her face takes on a look of absolute horror, as he knows from firsthand experience that getting shot is not fun, and neither is having Sherlock read you like an open book. Mim is looking down awkwardly at her feet now, and the room has gone silent.

"Not good?" Sherlock asks when he notices that John is glaring meaningfully at him.

"Bit not good, yeah." John says quietly.

For a minute, Mim stares out through the window. John has only just replaced the windows after they had been destroyed by the bomb that had gone off across the street and these new windows are unbelievably clean, it is almost like there is no window at all. At the moment only one of the windows is not covered by a curtain. Sherlock hardly ever worries about covering them, and John has happened to forget tonight. The view is hardly stunning, and Mim's blank gaze suggests that she is hardly interested in the view.

"So, now for the big question,' Sherlock says,' how did you die."

It's more of a statement than a question, and Mim looks up with interest.

"You haven't really given me much to go on,' Sherlock states,' but then, you've already given me almost everything I need. You keep rubbing your chest, but you said earlier that you were shot in the stomach, so you died due to an injury to your chest, and considering your aversion to getting shot it's safe to say that is how you died. So, murder then, as it's unlikely that you were shot accidentally. Your skin is slightly purple at the wrists and just above your collarbone. Probably domestic abuse, and considering the wedding ring you have on that means- oh."

Mim looks uncomfortable. She is staring anywhere but at Sherlock and is rubbing her fingers almost unconsciously over the skin under her collar bone, occasionally twisting the golden ring on her finger. She seems unaware that she is sinking slowly through the table she is sitting on. John wants to say something encouraging but can't because he is too enthralled by the rapid-fire deductions that Sherlock is spouting. How he was able to read Mim so easily was well and truly beyond him, but that was Sherlock, able to read your whole life story due to which shoes you put on in the morning.

"The first to time I came to look at the flats,' Sherlock continued,' here Mrs Hudson said that 221a had last been rented by a young man who had been in the army, during the Second World War. He would have had a gun..."

O.o.O.o.O

She looks up at Sherlock, a look of haunted fascination on her face. He's almost there, connecting the dots as she speaks. Now she knows why this man is considered genius and monster in equal parts. He can read you as if your life is painted on your face, and he can will her secrets to bare themselves for discovery, set alight like beacons for him to discover. It is terrifying being to totally exposed. There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from Sherlock Holmes, and now that her past is being spoken aloud it is like she is living it all over again.

"You were murdered, shot in the chest by your husband." Sherlock says quietly, and she feels her chest heave as a sharp pain shoots through her like an arrow. There is a predatory glint in the pale mans eyes, as if her rapidly decaying strands of self control cause him ecstasy. She stares at Sherlock and feels the need to cry. She has no idea if she can, because crying requires tears, but she has no liquids in her body to create them. Sherlock looks unfazed by her reaction, by her heaving gasps, but John is looking at her with that kind gaze again, and looks as if he is tossing up between telling Sherlock off or getting up to find her something soft to hug.

For just a moment she thinks of her husband, of the unfailingly kind gentleman he had been when they had met for the first time, and suddenly she is so emotional that she loses herself completely and sees the room fly upwards around her. She hears John make an alarmed noise and realises that she has fallen through the table. If she's not careful she might end up sinking through the floorboards, so she takes a shuddering breath and forces air into her dead lungs, seeking familiar comfort.

"Are you alright?" She hears John say, and suddenly her wrist is warm. She looks over and sees surprise on both John and Sherlock's face, and sees how John's fingers have sunk straight through her skin. Damn. Now the doctor looks slightly repulsed and he withdraws his fingers slowly, wriggling them around as if they are cramped, and there is a fine layer of _something_ dripping slowly from his fingertips.

It's all too much.

"I- I need to... to go,' she says, heaving herself up and through the top of the table, walking straight through it as she strides to the doorframe,' I need to compose myself. I'm sorry I bothered you." She doesn't look behind her as she turns to run out the door and up the stairs, flinging herself straight through the door of 221a and crashing down onto the floorboards where she stays for the rest of the night.

O.o.O.o.O

John watches as Mim flees the flat, his fingers cold and his mind racing. He stares at the open door, breathing heavily, and then lets out a sigh as he stands up and walks over to the burgundy armchair, throwing himself down into it like it is a life raft and he is escaping a sinking ship. He looks over at Sherlock, who is still staring at his fingers and looks completely calm. Sherlock glances up and meets his gaze, and then his steely blue eyes flicker to where John's hand hangs over the arm of the chair, dripping clear substance onto the floor.

"Yes, you can take a sample before I wash it off." John says before the consulting detective even opens his mouth, and then Sherlock is up off the couch and rummaging around in the kitchen for a container that isn't being used. John closes his eyes wearily, listening as Sherlock bangs around and marvelling at how he can be so enthusiastic now when most days he wouldn't have been bothered to have shifted his lazy ass from the couch. It was a wonder that John wasn't the one gathering the 'samples' for him.

"Fascinating..." he hears Sherlock say, and he feels something cold slide over his wrist, and hopes that whatever it is it has been washed recently.

"What's fascinating,' John says, still not opening his eyes,' the murder, the ectoplasm, or the violation of physics that's living upstairs?"

"Well, it's not really an interesting murder, so I thought that the answer would be obvious." Sherlock replies.

"You do realise that you made her run off crying, right?"

"It's hardly my problem if she is overly emotional."

For a moment John is silent.

This is the thing about Sherlock. It is so very easy to forget that he doesn't sympathise, doesn't _feel_, and when the consulting detective says something so horribly honest as that John is always taken aback. It is quite something not to be able to feel the pain of another, and as a doctor it is something John knows all too well.

Sherlock Holmes is a mad genius, a mad, _human_ genius, but his mind has erased his heart.

"You are interested in her, though." John tries to clarify.

"She is,' Sherlock says with a smile,' as you said, violation of the laws of physics. Of course I am interested. It's something new."

O.o.O.o.O

End- Part Two


	3. Shining Light

**AN /: Once again, thank you to everyone who reviewed and a special thanks to those who added my story to favourites or alerts, because it means the world to me that people are actually bothering to read this. Constructive criticism is welcome, especially if Sherlock and John are getting a little OOC, because sometimes I get too swept up in what I'm writing to notice and I'd prefer them to be accurately in character. So, thanks again and enjoy the next chapter.**

O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

_**Tremble**_

_**Ch 3. Shining Light**_

For two days she is not entirely sure whether to approach John and Sherlock again. She lies silently on the floorboards and just thinks, mulling over the possibilities and methodically working things through. It has been easier to think ever since she died, which is odd, because she has always been taught that to think you need a brain, and she is fairly certain that hers stopped functioning when she stopped breathing.

Back to the case at hand, though. Sherlock had seemed interested before she had run out, if only because she is something to keep him occupied. This gives her hope still, because, as the saying goes, these old bones are weary, and she is starting to become tired of her half life. If she wants his help, she will need to keep him interested. She has no idea if her murder could classify as interesting, because the more she thinks about it the more simple it becomes, and the more appalled she becomes because thinking of her own death is an incredibly surreal experience that is akin to the feeling of watching a snake eating its own tail.

However, no matter how much she needs Sherlock, and no matter how interesting or not her murder is, she knows that it is in her best interests to have John on her side. He is so unfailingly human, and she knows that he will sympathise with her wish for a final rest. She also knows that John is Sherlock's heart, his 'soft spot'. John is the best way to get to Sherlock, for better or for worse.

O.o.O.o.O

For the next two days Mim is at the forefront of John's mind, much the same way as Sherlock had been when they had first met. His mind drifts to the ghost girl from 221a on its own accord, his mind making connections between little things that have happened in 221b that he has always dismissed, like when the kitchen table seems a little cleaner or when a jumper that he has given up for lost appears at the end of his bed.

Sherlock has been tirelessly examining the 'ectoplasm' that he has gathered from John's hand, dividing it up and trying to stretch it out so that it can be tested as much as possible. There's some on the kitchen table, mixed with chemicals that John can't even begin to name. There's some in the fridge and occasionally some in the microwave, although that tends to disappear and reappear every ten or so minutes, even though he has not yet seen Sherlock move to touch it. Sherlock just sits at the table, sticking the clear substance under microscopes and staring at it as if he expects it to explode in his face, muttering all the while. John worries about him when he leaves for work in the morning, fully expecting to arrive back at the flat and find that Sherlock has somehow absorbed the stuff and have become a ghost himself. Of course, Sherlock is so pale and cold on a daily basis that John doubts he'd notice any difference until Sherlock starts walking through walls.

O.o.O.o.O

The criminal population of London is being quite boring at the moment, so there are no cases as of yet that have piqued Sherlock's interest enough to rouse him from the kitchen table. It is probably just as well, because there is nothing interesting in the house, and John is working at his mundane little job almost every day now and consequently hasn't been in the flat as a handy distraction. In any case, the substance that Sherlock has salvaged from Mim's freak-out has been quite entertaining.

It seems to enjoy breaking the laws of physics, and is unlike anything he has ever seen before. He also refuses to call it 'ectoplasm', because that is so typically mundane and possibly something that Anderson would do, and so for the duration of his first two experiments, including a Bunsen burner and a litre of nitric acid, he thinks of what to call this substance and settles upon the name of 'phantasmplast'. Feeling quite smug with himself he begins his third experiment, setting the stuff on fire, and watches with intrigue as the flame burns purple.

O.o.O.o.O

It is the third day after meeting Mim that John broaches the subject again with Sherlock.

"Sherlock, there's ectoplasm in the fridge,' John says, and Sherlock makes the slightest exasperated sigh.

"Of course it is, I need to keep it cold if I want the arsenic to stop exploding,' the taller man replies, not taking his eyes off the laptop screen and typing furiously,' I almost lost both of my eyebrows when I tried to mix the two substances at room temperature. And would you please call it phantasmplast? 'Ectoplasm' is such a dull term."

"Whatever you like,' John replies as he pokes around for leftovers that he can use as dinner,' but do you have to poison the stuff? I don't know how I'm going to explain what we were doing if Mrs Hudson accidentally ingests cyanide or whatever else you have hanging around in innocent looking bottles." Sherlock doesn't answer for a few minutes and a relaxed silence falls between the two of them, broken only by the tapping of Sherlock's fingers on the laptop keyboard and the rush of traffic outside. It has started to get cold recently, and although the fireplace lies abandoned John has managed to get the heating fixed. He has also started to wear his knitted jumper more, and has the strangest feeling that he is starting to look a bit like a sheep.

"Haven't heard from Mim for two days now." John remarks as he fishes a plastic container of leftover fried rice from the top shelf. Sherlock doesn't reply, and John assumes that he can hear him anyway, because he always can. It's whether or not he pays attention that John can never be sure about.

"Might duck upstairs and see if she's okay soon." John tries again, and this time he receives a noncommittal noise from Sherlock that suggests that John has to be quiet or he won't be able to think. From then on there is quiet again, and John eats his leftovers in silence. It is while he is eating that he makes up his mind that he is going to go visit 221a, going to go talk to a ghost. It is certainly one of the stranger things he has ever decided to do. He gets up from his armchair, sticks the empty plastic container on the sink where he will wash it later, and then walks out the door.

John has never actually ventured to the floor above, and he realises this when he feels the cold sense of foreboding that wraps itself around his chest and tells him to leave. The wallpaper on the walls is moulding and is starting to peel away from the wall, leaving bare the strips of wood behind. The staircase is actually starting to rot, and the ceiling has more damp patches than John knows what to do with. Johns shoulder starts to ache, a slow, dull pain that throbs steadily deep within the muscle. The door that he finds himself standing in front of is just as worn down as its surrounding exterior. The wood beginning to splinter and there are parts that actually look green.

Taking a deep breath John reaches for the handle which is freezing cold to the touch and squeals in protest as he twists it open. He is not sure what to expect on the other side of the door, but what he sees first is a large, sparsely furnished room with a fireplace on the opposite wall, two doors to the left and right, and Mim lying on the floor, resting on her side with her head turned away from him.

He starts and his breath catches in his throat, the doctor part of his brain taking over as he begins to search her prone body for signs of stroke, and then remembers that she _is_ dead and is probably just sleeping. Or something like that. He walks over to her cautiously, taking small steps until he is almost standing over her, and then as he wonders what he should do he sees her eyes flutter open underneath her fringe.

"Hello." She says politely, not moving from where she lies.

"Um, hi." John replies, smiling awkwardly because he is not sure what else to do. Mim isn't making any attempts to move so John steps around her and bends down to sit on the floor next to her.

"Do you know anything about binding rituals?" Mim asks pleasantly, her voice breathy, and John shakes his head. Mim lets out a sigh and closes her eyes again, taps on the floor with her left hand, and then opens her eyes and stares at John. Suddenly all the heat bleeds out of Johns body and down into the floor, and he is left shivering and rubbing his hands together. He finally realises just how cold the room is as he sees wisps of white escape his mouth.

"A binding ritual is an occult practise,' Mim says quietly,' used to tie someone or something to certain place. They're not widely practised, and for good reason." As she speaks John notices that no misty breaths emit from her mouth.

"Why are you telling me this?" John asks, although he does have a hunch that he is pretty happy with.

"A binding ritual can be used to tether souls to the earth. I'm tethered to this flat, John Watson. Tethered and so, so weary."

"Is there a way to un-tether you?" John asks, and for a moment he allows himself to be pleased that his hunch was accurate.

"There is, but I need your help."

So far, so out of the ordinary.

"What do you need my help with?" John asks, and Mim closes her eyes again.

"I need you to help me find my bones."

Well. His hunch hadn't seen that one coming.

"Your bones?" John asks, because he isn't sure where this is going, and needs specification to make sure that he isn't going in over his head.

"My bones. They were used in the ritual to tie me here. Most of them are hidden in the flat, but my skull and one of my ribs aren't. I need to find them if I ever want to move on... or at least, that's what I was told."

For one horrible moment John thinks of the skull that Sherlock is keeping as a paperweight above the fireplace. Without really thinking he turns his head towards the corridor and almost jumps out of his skin when he sees Sherlock standing behind him, leaning against the rotting doorframe. He hadn't even heard the taller man climb the stairs.

"Of course it's not my skull she's talking about." Sherlock says, and John lets out a sigh of relief.

"You're the best chance I have. Will you help me?" Mim asks, still not moving from the floor. She is so unnervingly still, just lying on her side and not even bothering to brush her fringe from over her eyes.

Sherlock is silent for a moment, and John stares at him meaningfully. He knows full well that if Sherlock isn't interested then he will leave Mim without a second thought, but John doesn't want to refuse her rest. And besides, making a ghost angry probably isn't a very smart course of action, either.

"Yes, I'll help you,' Sherlock replies,' in return for a few favours."

O.o.O.o.O

When Sherlock says yes she lets out a sigh of relief and closes her eyes once again. Closing her eyes had always been a strange experience for her, because sometimes if she isn't careful she ends up seeing through her eyelids. However, very soon she won't have to worry about that any more. It doesn't matter what little favours Sherlock asks of her, she would do anything for this man at the moment, except of course, murder.

She is almost there, almost at the end. She can taste freedom, and it is wonderful.

O.o.O.o.O

End- Part Three


	4. Fingers In The Floorboards

**AN /: This one is a little shorter than the other chapters because it just felt like a good place to stop. All up I'm very excited about where this is going, as the story line has changed a fair bit as I've kept going. Anyways, as usual, my extreme thanks and gratitude to those who read and review, every little comment counts :)**

O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

_**Tremble**_

_**Ch 4. Fingers**_

"So, human bones in the flat,' John says as he and Sherlock walk down the stairs, back to 221b,' I doubt Mrs Hudson will be happy with that."

"No, I don't suppose she will be." Sherlock says in reply as he sweeps through the open door and performs a rather feminine twirl just after the doorway, clapping his hands together and closing his eyes. John rolls his eyes at Sherlock's dramatic tendencies and takes a seat in his armchair, picking at a hole in the fabric. Sherlock begins to mutter to himself now, his hands clasped below his chin as if it is vital to his wellbeing to prop his head up with his index fingers. His eyes are bright as they snap back open, a sign of intrigue.

"When are we going to start looking?" John asks, hoping with all his might that Sherlock is going to say the weekend, because it is a Thursday evening and he has work tomorrow, and he's not going to be able to stay awake if he's rummaging around a flat that can also double as a freezer all night.

"Right away, of course." Sherlock replies matter-of-factly, and John's hope sinks to his stomach. However, whether it is the prospect of an interesting night or Sherlock's overzealous enthusiasm rubbing off on him, John is actually feeling a little bit excited to begin the search. A good scavenger hunt has always been a bit of fun, even if this one is going to be more morbid than searching for sweets in the backyard.

Sherlock is swirling around the room in a flurry of movement, rummaging through cupboards and drawers and pulling out seemingly random objects while John goes to his bedroom to put on another sweater and another jacket over that. He arrives in the living room a minute after he left and sees Sherlock trying to keep a hold on a handful of rubber gloves, a pair of tweezers, and a crowbar which John cannot for the life of him figure out where it has come from. John takes the crow bar off him and Sherlock gives him an approving grin when he manages to stop dropping the tweezers and is able to shove the gloves in to the pocket of his pants.

"Off we go then!" Sherlock says with the most excitement John has seen him display all week, and he utterly fails to suppress his own grin.

O.o.O.o.O

She waits patiently as John and Sherlock say a hurried goodbye and then rush down the stairs, knowing that they will return soon after. There is a fluttering feeling in her stomach, like she has swallowed one hundred butterflies and they are flying around and tickling her insides. Excitement, she guesses, that would be the most likely reason for the feeling, and she does feel a little more... alive than usual.

Without fail she hears the thud of footsteps as John and Sherlock venture up the stairs and walk in through the door that neither had remembered to close. John is wearing more layers than she remembers, his woollen jumper hidden under a black jacket and what appears to be a parker. His mouth is like a small fog machine, every breath he takes spilling into the room and rolling out in front of his face. Sherlock has not bothered to put warmer clothes on, and is standing in the doorway in only his thin purple shirt and black pants. His is shivering slightly, but does not seem to be aware of it.

"Back already?" she asks, lifting herself up from the floor.

"I can never stay away from a treasure hunt." Sherlock says with a Cheshire-like grin.

"Where should we start looking?" John asks, shivering as he glances around the room.

She reaches up to slip the straps of her overalls from her shoulders and then pulls the top of her shirt over her head. She can see through the fabric, and allows herself to smile at John and Sherlock's reactions, bemused panic and innocent intrigue respectively. She pulls herself free of the shirt, drops it to the floor and runs a finger over a symbol engraved onto the flesh over her upper breastbone, framing the small hole where a bullet has ripped through her skin.

"This symbol is carved into wherever my bones lie,' she says quietly,' look for that."

"Can't you just show us where the symbols are?" John says, and she shakes her head.

"Don't you think I would have found them by now?"

"Then you can't see them yourself." Sherlock says, and she nods.

"Got it in one,' she says,' being released from a bind isn't easy to do by yourself. I need someone else to look for me."

As she finishes her sentence she is aware that Sherlock is no longer listening. He has walked into the middle of the room and is turning in a circle, swivelling around on his heels. His eyes are narrowed and his gaze darts around the room, eventually resting on a small painting that hangs on the far wall. The butterflies in her stomach begin some sort of melee, and she can feel a crackling energy shoot through her skin. Sherlock walks to the painting, a small, dingy picture of a single flower in a field of grass. It had been a house warming present, but she has never liked it.

"The crowbar, John,' Sherlock says, taking the picture from the wall and then holding one had out behind him as he strokes the wall gently with the other. John hands him the crowbar and without warning or finesse he swings it at the wall. The wall makes a crunching sound, almost like a biscuit being snapped in half, and the paint and plaster falls from the wall to reveal a small space only about two inches deep. Inside sits a black velvet bag, and Sherlock slips on a plastic glove over his hand before reaching in and pulling out the bag by the drawstring, holding it out at an arm's length. A silence falls over the room as she walks over and instinctively holds out her hand, watching as Sherlock pulls the drawstring and upends the bag. A jumble of small, yellowing bones tumble out into her hand and warmth spreads through her body, setting fire to what may used to have been her nervous system. She closes her eyes and all she sees is darkness. When she opens her eyes she notices that the bones have disappeared from her hand, and that John and Sherlock are staring at her as if she has told them that she is a ghost all over again.

O.o.O.o.O

The moment Sherlock tips the bones onto Mim's hand the room suddenly feels warmer. Unsure of what is going to happen, John glances at Sherlock, but if forced to look back at Mim as her hand begins to glow with a soft white light. She closes her eyes and her hand becomes transparent as the small bones sink though her skin. A few rearrange themselves but others disappear deeper into her body, and for a moment her whole frame becomes transparent. There is a sudden rush of air in the room, swirling around John's feet, and then everything is still. Mim blinks and stretches out her hand, a curious look on her face.

"Do you feel any different?" Sherlock asks.

"A little warmer, I think." Mim replies.

"Interesting,' Sherlock replies,' now, I think we still have a fair bit of work ahead of us."

End- Part Four


	5. The Thing About Favours

**AN /: This story is getting a lot longer than I intended it to be, it's also growing a bit of a life of its own. It's also receiving more reviews and favourites than I could have ever hoped for, so thank you to everyone out there who decided to give this little fic a go. We're about half way now, and there are still a lot of things I want to fiddle with yet, so just sit back and enjoy the ride.**

O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

_**Tremble**_

_**Ch 5. The Thing About Favours**_

They are up for what feels like all night, upturning piles of trinkets and knick knacks, ripping through the fraying furniture and just generally tearing apart the flat. John takes on his usual scavenger hunt technique, slowly and methodically working his way around the room while Sherlock darts about like an excitable puppy. Mim sits on a small armchair pushed against one of the walls, wearing her shirt again, much to Johns relief, as she watches them work, and John forgets that she is there until he or Sherlock finds a small bag of bones and she stands up to claim them.

At one point John takes a break to examine the picture that Sherlock had removed to find the first bag of bones, and when he looks carefully he can see the symbol hidden in the petals of the flower. It is a star with a hole in its middle, cleverly disguised. It sends a chill down his spine.

Eventually the bone tally ends up with Sherlock finding the majority of them and John finding just enough to satisfy his pride. Each bag has been devilishly tricky to find, and some of the symbols have been so seamlessly woven into the apartment that they are almost invisible. Sherlock finds two of the particularly well hidden ones, one stashed away in the broken drain attached to the kitchen sink where contortion is required to spot the symbol, and the other where the symbol has been miniscule, printed into a corner between two skirting boards. The bag of bones which John feels most proud about finding is the one stuffed into the armrest of a couch, which John only notices because one of the many 'red herring' stars printed onto the fabric, just to the side of his hand, has one point too many.

He doesn't know how long he's been searching for, but eventually he sits down to have a rest, trying to ignore the mouldy smell of the armchair. He is, excuse the irony, bone tired, and there is a heavy feeling in his eyelids that is becoming more prominent than adrenalin and excitement. Sherlock of course is still running around, not showing any signs of tiring, and his enthusiasm does not show any sign of wavering. John's one mistake is to close his eyes, because when he opens them again Sherlock is nowhere to be seen, his mouth feels like sandpaper, and the room is a lot brighter than it was before. There is a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him, and suddenly he is aware of the rather mouldy but still very warm blanket draped over him. He blinks furiously and has to think hard to remember where he is.

"You may need to wake up now if you want to get to work on time,' says a voice, and the hand on his shoulder becomes a bit more forceful. He looks up and sees Mim, and he brings up a hand to rub his eyes.

"Time?" he asks groggily.

"Seven thirty-two." Mim replies, taking her hand away.

"Sherlock?"

"Left five hours ago without explanation."

_Damn._

John pulls himself from the chair, stretching his arms out and then leaning over to pick up the blanket from where it had fallen and drape it over the arm of the chair, covering the rather deep imprint that his elbow had left.

"I should probably get going then,' he says, taking a step towards the door,' did Sherlock end up finding all your bones?"

"All but the ones that aren't in the flat, yes." Mim says, and she smiles warmly. She looks a bit healthier now, if the word healthy can be applied to a ghost. She is less pale, definitely, and her clothes and hair seem brighter. John smiles wearily and heads towards the door, but before he can leave Mim grabs onto his jacket sleeve and pulls him back around.

"Thank you,' she says,' you have no idea how long I've had to wait."

"It's no trouble, really,' John replies, and as he walks down the stairs to go take a quick shower, he feels distinctly happier than he should for the little amount of sleep that he has gotten.

O.o.O.o.O

After John leaves she feels the need to paint. She doesn't know what exactly, but it has to be something bright. She fishes her easel out of a pile of various odds and ends from the flat that Sherlock had flung aside on his search, and from the same pile she manages to find three paint brushes and two tubes of oil paint that don't seem to be used up yet. From a cupboard in the derelict bedroom she pulls out a sizeable canvass, and then she sets up back in the lounge room and is suddenly feeling happier than she has ever felt since she died. She doesn't work with a pallet and instead pushes the paint straight onto the canvass, losing herself to the rhythmic swirl of her brush. For her, painting is one of the very few things that death has not dulled. Not being able to eat or drink is one of the greatest letdowns, although that has not stopped her from making tea anyway, if only just to sit on the floor and loose herself in the scent. She rarely goes out either, as the further away from the flat she is the less she is able to concentrate about staying corporeal because there is just so much more to focus on. She has not left the building for close to ten years, and has only really taken to leaving her flat these past few months. There is a sudden sense, being so close to her final rest, to go out once more and experience as much as she can before she finally leaves, but she isn't in any hurry.

She is so caught up in her painting that she doesn't notice Sherlock standing by the door. She looks over to him only when she hears a buzzing noise, and sees him pulling his mobile from his coat pocket.

"Is this about my bones?" she asks hopefully.

"Sadly not,' Sherlock replies, eyes still on his phone,' although I am currently looking for some information as to where your skull could be. No, this is about a favour."

She blinks, a little uneasy about what this favour could entail.

"John refuses to accompany me to a crime scene which Lestrade is currently requesting me at, but I need an assistant. If you don't mind stepping in for the moment..." Sherlock's voice trails off, but his tone is expectant. Mim looks back down at her painting to see that it has become the beginnings of a bird resting on a branch, and she thinks the offer over carefully.

"I'll help you." She says finally, and Sherlock grins.

"Wonderful,' he says, and then turns heel and walks out of the flat. She follows him down the stairs and out into the open world, and it hits her like a hurricane, the sights, the sounds, the smells, all of it. It may not be quite as vibrant as she remembers it, or even the same as she remembers, but the street is full of life and it is magnificent.

Sherlock is waiting by the curb already, holding open the door to a taxi, and she climbs in without hesitation. As the taxi peels back into the traffic, a sea of black and silver, she grins widely and allows herself to feel excited. Only three times does she forget to keep herself corporeal, and Sherlock has to nudge her when her legs sink through the seat.

O.o.O.o.O

The aforementioned crime scene is a car park next to an abandoned construction site, all of it dreary and grey, even the sky. The far section of the car park has been sectioned off with police tape, and the area is swarming with police. While Sherlock pays the driver and darts off, Mim slips out of the other door and takes her time, trying to look nonchalant about the fact that her fingertips have disappeared slightly into the door handle. She wanders about, weaving between police officers that give her odd looks but don't make any attempts to converse. It occurs to her that paint splattered overalls are not really appropriate clothing for such a place, but when nobody asks her to change she disregards the need to worry. She walks over to the edge of the police tape and spots Sherlock standing next to another, shorter man with silver hair and a tired expression and she goes to duck under the tape but is stopped by a woman who looks to be in her late twenties, wearing a trench coat and looking like she knows she has better places to be.

"Sorry, but this area is restricted, police access only,' she says in a voice that is exasperated yet friendly with a tone of practised authority.

"What happened?" Mim asks, and the woman gives a sad sigh.

"The body of a young woman was found here. I don't really think you'd want to know any more details, it's a bit disturbing." The woman seems to be talking down to her, like she is a small child incapable of handling hard truths, but it doesn't really phase her because the woman is just doing her job and seems likeable enough.

"Mim!" she hears Sherlock call, and when the woman turns around her expression icy. Sherlock is walking towards them, an irritated expression on his face. He stops next to the police tape and lifts it up high enough for her to slip under.

"What're you doing?" the woman asks.

"I'm letting my assistant through, Sally. Don't make me call Lestrade over."

"Another assistant,' the woman, Sally, says incredulously,' what happened to John? Did he finally come to his senses and leave?"

"John is currently at work,' Sherlock says, his irritation rising but keeping a calm smile on his face,' now come through, Mim."

"I'll give you the same advice I gave him,' Sally says to her,' stay away from Sherlock Holmes if you know what's good for you."

In reply she smiles apologetically and slips under the police tape, secretly marvelling over the effect that Sherlock has on people, and just how easily he can get under their skin.

When they arrive at the scene of the crime she lets out a wail of horror and has to turn around. She thought that being dead would soften or dull her reaction to death. Apparently she thought wrong. Her mind has captured the scene and will not let go, painting it out behind her eyes in the most horribly vibrant colours she has ever seen. All she can think of is the blood, red blood blooming from the body, splashed about to form a mockery of a flower, the body lifeless and pale in the centre, eyes blank and staring up to the sky. Her skin feels clammy, and she doesn't know how she knows, but she is sure that the death is recent, because _death_ is everywhere, her remaining senses screaming it out to her. Even being dead herself, she is simply not prepared for the sight of the body.

"Are you alright?" the man next to Sherlock asks, and she remembers the voice from the drugs bust. Lestrade.

"Sort of,' she replies,' I'm a bit... squeamish." Taking deep breaths into dead lungs she turns around. She doesn't let herself look at the body, and stares into Lestrade's brown eyes instead. There is a hardened look to them, a look that has probably come from seeing scenes such as this with an unfortunate regularity.

"Sherlock, are you sure it was a good idea to bring someone so..." Lestrade can't seem to find the right word, looking at Sherlock rather disapprovingly. _Unprepared_, she thinks to herself, finishing Lestrade's sentence.

"Yes I'm sure,' Sherlock says, and his confidence shows no signs of a dint,' now, the murder?"

"Her name is Emily Brown,' Lestrade says,' daughter of a local real estate agent. The body was found this morning by a little old lady who liked to come by this way for walks, apparently. There are three stab wounds to the back but no sign of the murder weapon, although the paintbrush used to paint the blood into that flower shape was found in the victims hand."

"You seem to have everything figured out, so why call me?" Sherlock asks.

"Well, I thought the flower would be right up your alley."

Sherlock is about to answer but she cuts him off.

"That, and there's another body nearby."

She doesn't see Lestrade looking at her with an astonished face because all she can see is the young woman, gaunt and pale, who is standing behind Lestrade and gesturing towards the building site. She looks frantic, and her thick brown hair is plastered to her blood-stained clothes.

"Surely you couldn't have missed the signs,' Sherlock says hurriedly, apparently covering for her but all the while looking at her curiously. He begins to explain the clues that he has found, something about tyre marks and how a particular clump of weeds was more flat than it should be, and even though she wants to stay and listen she has to go to the woman. Without another word she moves past Lestrade, and the hairs on the back of her neck rise. The other woman is a ghost, because that is all she can be considering the sheer amount of blood on her clothes and her exact resemblance of the corpse. She stands in front of the dead woman and puts a hand on her shoulder, and instantly the dead woman calms.

"Find him,' the dead woman says, pointing to the construction site again.

"Why can't you?" She asks.

"I'm dead,' the woman replies and gestures to her body,' now I have to leave."

She nods, and the dead woman smiles. Suddenly her whole body comes apart, rays of light exploding from her insides, and then there is a gush of wind and the dead woman is gone, and the words _thank you_ linger in her mind, whispered by a voice that is not hers. She looks back at Sherlock and Lestrade, who are looking at her as if she has grown an extra head, but neither of them seem to have noticed that the ghost of the murdered woman has just disappeared, gone to her rest. She feels slightly jealous, but then stops herself, because that is an inappropriate to think.

She begins to walk over to the construction site, ducking under the police tape and only stopping when she hears footsteps pounding over asphalt in her direction.

"What was all that?" Sherlock asks, and his voice is just a tad moody, as if he is angry at her for stealing a bit of his thunder.

"The woman told me that there was another body, hidden in the construction site. You didn't see her?"

"No, I did not."

"Oh."

"Apparently you can see other ghosts."

"Apparently so."

They keep walking, faster than any of the other police who haven't quite caught up to them yet. When they reach the construction site she steps onto the concrete and suddenly her skin is beginning to feel clammy again and she can feel _death_ reaching out and wrapping around her like a shawl. She starts to wander about, concentrating on the feeling, letting it pull her towards its source. Where it is most powerful it hits her in the stomach, because there is something truly malicious attached to this death.

"It's here." She says, closing her eyes and trying to fight the cold creeping into her already rather cool body.

"Ah,' Sherlock says quietly,' Mim, you may want to pull your feet out of the concrete."

She looks down and realises that in her loss of focus she has sunk ankle deep into the concrete. She pulls her feet out just as Lestrade arrives with a few more policemen in tow, all of them looking more than a bit disgruntled.

"This had better not be some wild goose chase Sherlock,' Lestrade says,' do you know where the other body is or not?"

"This concrete has been repoured recently,' Sherlock says,' it has just the wrong colour and texture to have been poured with the original lot. The body will be under it."

True to Sherlock's word there is a body under the concrete, that of a young man, and she is forced to look away from it just the same as she had to do with the other one because not only has it started to decompose, but there is a rather large stab wound to the chest.

There is no ghost this time, but quite frankly, she is relieved. Another ghost may have been a little too much to handle, and her mental state is not exactly stable, considering she technically has no brain to keep it all in check.

Sherlock pulls her away from the body a few minutes later and they wander back to the road to hail a cab. Sherlock doesn't say a word on the journey back, and she stares out the window to watch the passing traffic. This time she has to remind herself to stop sinking into the seat.

O.o.O.o.O

End- Part Five


	6. The Chase, The Capture, The Panic

**AN /: I'll admit I was in a bit of a rush to finish this one so sorry if everything's a bit quick. The next chapters will most likely be a lot longer. There's not much to go either, only a few more chapters. We're almost there, people!**

O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

_**Tremble**_

_**Ch 6. The Chase, The Capture, The Panic**_

When they reach the apartment it takes exactly three minutes and seventeen seconds for Sherlock to realise something new and rush straight back out, and she simply can't resist the opportunity to follow the madman like a small, pale puppy. After her little taste of freedom she can't go quietly slipping back to her flat just yet, she can't give this up, can't give up this _rush_. Sherlock hails a cab, and it is the last time that she rides in a cab for the rest of the day.

Sherlock takes her on what she would consider a whirlwind tour of London, and she barely has time to register the change since she was last this far into the city. He picks up leads that have them ducking into coffee shops, running through alleyways that seem far too shady to be safe, and wandering through a quiet little park just as the sun is beginning to set. Sherlock manages to persuade her to break into the apartments of the victims and also one of the suspects. Well, not so much break in as slip through the walls and open the door from the inside, but she finds that walking through solid brick is a tad difficult if you feel guilty about it.

Throughout the day she manages to keep up with Sherlock as he runs because she does not need to breathe and has no muscles to burn, and that is about it. She is absolutely useless at remembering the facts that she is told, mostly because she is a very visual person but also because she just cannot seem to keep any of it in her head. Whenever she is told a fact it just seems to slip from her mind a few minutes later, there and gone like a summer breeze. While it is clear that Sherlock enjoys having her around for her housebreaking abilities he begins to get a little short tempered with her, and eventually insults her mental capacities a few minutes after she cannot remember the exact time of death of the female victim from the crime scene as well as the colour of her shoes. Even though she reminds him that she doesn't actually have a working brain to store this information in, he is impatient with her for the rest of the day.

It is a blessing when they meet John in a restaurant with a great view of the Thames but some truly horrible waiters. The instant he walks in through the door Sherlock's face lifts, not growing noticeably happier per se but gaining a softness to it which is a stark contrast to the grim, steely way he had been examining each waiter that had passed and muttering their secrets under his breath.

John sits down as Sherlock explains his deductions to him and brings him up to speed, and she sits and listens, absently playing with a fork. So far Sherlock is almost convinced that the murders have been committed by the dead woman's overprotective father, but although the theory is backed up by a wealth of leads and links, the father has a solid alibi.

"So there is absolutely no way that he could have murdered her and then maybe gotten the body to the crime scene later?" John asks, digging his fork into a small plate of pasta.

"No way at all,' Sherlock replies,' the body was too fresh. The murder had to have been at least ten or fifteen minutes before the old woman found it."

John makes a puzzled frown and takes a sip of water, stabbing his pasta absently. She wishes she could add something to the conversation, but all of this is far beyond her. Suddenly Sherlock whispers something to himself. John looks at him, and he smiles.

"We need to go." Sherlock says, and stands up. John gives an exasperated sigh and goes to pay, and when he walks out Sherlock is already waiting for him, holding open the door to a cab. In the space of thirty minutes, they travel the outskirts of London, questioning some seemingly random people and picking up a few more leads, and finally they arrive at a small flat in a little suburb that most people would think of as unsafe at this time of night. Then things start to go downhill.

Just as Sherlock has thought, the killer is the father, and he was seemingly in two places at once thanks to a clever use of mirrors, misinformation and lights that seems too comical for such a serious situation. When cornered, the father, a man in his fifties with thinning blonde hair and clothes that make her think of happier times, confesses to everything. He did not approve of his daughters new boyfriend, and secretly murdered him and hid the body at the construction site. When the daughter confronted him they began to argue and he accidentally shot her, then he dumped the body at the construction site, painted the flower as a twisted way of apology, and fled. Nobody thinks to ask him about the gun until Sherlock says that he has called the police.

"You won't take me,' the man says, his voice shaking with fear and rage,' if you try I'll shoot you all and I'll run, and you'll never catch me."

John steps forwards, tries to say something, but the man points the gun to his chest.

"I'm warning you, I'll really do it." The man threatens, and John steps back.

"Oh, I don't think so, not really, you don't have the heart." Sherlock says, absolutely sure that the man will not shoot, and then the man pulls the trigger and the sound of the gunshot echoes through the room.

She isn't really sure why she does it. There is no thought, only action, no reason whatsoever as to why she swings herself in front of Sherlock and pushes him off balance so that he topples to the floor. There is a split second of pressure to her forehead and then nothing, and she flings her arms out wide and bellows for the man to drop his gun.

The man lets go as quickly as if he has received an electric shock, and the gun hits the wooden floor with a heavy thud. He backs away, shaking his head and gibbering, his hands clasped together as if he is praying. The sound of sirens fills the air, and Sherlock motions from the floor to John, signalling to get out. John does as he is told and drags her with him by the arm, and they walk out and down past the next three streets. When they stop it is in the shadow of a looming, dingy apartment block that has been covered in so much graffiti that the original colour is no longer visible.

Gingerly, she presses her fingers to her head, and slides them over cold skin until she finds the hole just above her left ear and- oh, she really shouldn't think too hard about the fact that her little finger can just fit through that hole. There is no blood and there is another hole a few millimetres to the right of the back of her skull. She's been shot again, damn it. But at least the bullet wasn't still somewhere in her skull.

John looks at her apprehensively, as if he is not sure what he should say.

"Is it terrible?" she asks.

"Not terrible,' John replies,' just... odd. Really, really odd."

"I doubt it will need stitches. The wound won't heal."

"Oh. Alright."

Now John is just struggling for words. _This must be as strange to watch as it is to feel_, she thinks to herself.

"It didn't hurt,' she says. John looks just slightly more relieved, and they are both spared from any further awkwardness by Sherlock's arrival.

"The police have the suspect in custody and I've told them what they need to know,' Sherlock says, his eyes failing to avoid that small hole in her head,' we're free to leave."

"Right." John says, and they walk until they find a cab. Just before it pulls up John reaches up and takes her hair out of its plait so that it falls loose around her neck, and ruffles it a bit so that it covers her bullet wounds, and then proceeds to usher her hurriedly into the cab where she finds herself squashed between the two of them.

To make things a little more comfortable she loses her concentration on the world around her and is aware of the odd tingling sensation of Sherlock and John sinking just a little further past her hips than physics would allow. She just hopes the driver won't notice.

O.o.O.o.O

End- Part Six


	7. Scavenger

**AN /: We're almost there, just one more chapter after this one to go and then you'll all get to know whether Mim can die in peace or not. Alrighty now, on with the story!**

O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

_**Tremble**_

_**Ch 7. Scavenger**_

When they arrive at 221b John ushers Mim to their living room where he produces a white cloth, a needle and some thread that looks suspiciously like fishing wire. He then sits her down in an armchair and pulls up a stool beside her as Sherlock bypasses them for the couch.

"You don't have to bother,' Mim says,' it won't heal."

"Yes, but I don't think it would be much good psychologically for you to have a hole in your head." John replies, and Mim does not protest further, and neither does she ask for pain killers.

There is silence as John stitches Mim's head together with scraps of bandages and Sherlock taps about on his phone, corresponding with someone that is either a potential new case or someone whom Sherlock deems worthy of being told that they're wrong.

John has just started to stitch up the back of Mim's head when he notices that Mim is staring at the skull above the fireplace.

"We'll find it soon." He says, and Mim starts.

"I've already found it,' Sherlock says, and this time Mim's eyes grow wide.

"You didn't think that telling me this earlier would have been nice?" she says, still facing the skull and sounding indignant.

"It didn't have anything to do with the case." Sherlock says in his defence.

"Where is it,' Mim asks, her voice verging on excited, frantic and hysterical and all trace of her patient indifference is gone,' can we find it soon?"

"That will require some grave robbing." Sherlock replies. The nonchalance in his sentence is astounding.

"My skull has been buried?"

"Creative and simple yet entirely predictable. All I had to do was look up some old newspapers."

"So we're going to be digging up a grave in the middle of the night?" John asks with a frown, not entirely sure that he approves of this idea.

"I've arranged that we won't be disturbed." Sherlock says.

"Wait, do you mean we're going right now?" John says, cutting off the excess thread and inspecting his work.

"Of course we're going now,' Sherlock replies,' my favour only lasts until tomorrow morning."

Mim looks excited, and there is something in her face that looks very alive as she and John rush to keep up with Sherlock as he strides abruptly out of the apartment.

O.o.O.o.O

The graveyard is textbook creepy. There is actually a light fog that impairs John' vision of the marble headstones, and the small lights that line a stone path past the graves look like fireflies, flickering in the gloom.

Sherlock is leading the way, looking every bit like a ghost with his long coat and paler than healthy complexion. It is quite ironic that he looks more at home in the graveyard than Mim does, who is right behind him and looking excited and calm at the same time. Eventually Sherlock deviates from the path and begins to weave between the graves, and he comes to a stop in front of a plain grey headstone. He hears Mim suck in her breath as she bends down to examine her grave, a small patch of grass and a headstone covered by moss and lacking flowers like so many of the other graves around them. She runs her fingers gingerly over the engraving, only a few words but written in love and grief:

_Miriam Featherstone_

_1930-1950_

_Loving daughter and caring mother._

Below the engraving, in the very bottom left corner, is a small symbol. Once again, Sherlock has gotten it right.

John hears something behind him click and he turns to see Sherlock holding a small shovel that he hadn't been carrying before. John raises an eyebrow and Sherlock motions to his coat. Of course.

"It would probably be best if I were the one to..." Sherlock trails off but his point is clear. Mim nods and stands away from the grave, and Sherlock bends down and starts digging up the ground just under the headstone. "They never found the whole body,' he says as he digs,' just a skull. They buried the skull here, which is rather lucky because trying to dig up a coffin may have caused some unwanted attention to be drawn to us."

Mim laughs in a strangled, nervous way, and John let out a long sigh as he realised that he had been holding his breath. Eventually there is a thud, and Sherlock puts the shovel aside and shrugs off his coat to reach down into the hole that he has dug, withdrawing a solid wooden box from the hole.

He holds it gently, rotating it between his hands. There is no lock, it is just a plain square box that is wrapped with a thick piece of cord. Sherlock hands it over to Mim, who takes it slowly, holding it close to her chest and closing her eyes. She takes a deep breath and then pulls the dirt covered cord away, dropping it into the hole, and slowly, cautiously, removing the lid. John moves to her and peers down into the box to find a grinning skull nestled amongst a dull bundle of fabric. Mim bends down and places the box on the ground, and then slowly reaches into the box, pulling out the skull.

"Finally..." she whispers as the skull in her hands begins to glow white, then bursts apart and swarms towards her face like tiny supernatural fireflies. Mim closes her eyes and the small white sparks flow in though her parted lips. Her whole body becomes transparent once again, and John can _see_ the sparks lodge themselves inside what was one empty space inside her head.

As Mim's body returns to normal she looks so very alive. Her skin is no longer pale, and her eyes are bright. She is almost there.

Sherlock looks happy as he picks his coat up, a rare glint in his eyes. Without a word Mim places the box back in the hole and then takes the shovel from where it is lying by the grave and begins to fill the hole in. The task is done in silence, and as Mim pats down the last bit of dirt she turns to look at John, and John knows exactly what she is trying to say.

"C'mon, let's go,' he says to Sherlock, grabbing his arm and ignoring his protests as they walk back towards the front of the graveyard.

"I'll be sad to see her go,' Sherlock says as they walk,' it won't be nearly as easy to get into crime scenes without her."

"You've managed without her for quite a while,' John says,' and besides, she'd probably like to have a rest after all these years."

"I suppose so, but I was so looking forwards to asking her to haunt Mycroft for me."

John laughs, but is abruptly cut short as Sherlock swings out an arm to stop him. They are at the gates of the cemetery now, and someone is leaning leisurely against the wrought iron gates.

"So lovely to see you again boys,' Jim Moriarty says with a grin,' it's been quite a while."

O.o.O.o.O

End- Part Seven


	8. Confrontations Of Memories Past

**AN /: This will be the second last chapter, but as the very last chapter is a epilogue this is for all intents and purposes the **_**real**_** last chapter. A final massive thankyou to everyone who has read, reviewed or generally just enjoyed this story. It has been a pleasure to entertain you all.**

O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o

_**Tremble**_

_**Ch 8. Confrontations Of Memories Past**_

She sits next to the grave for a few seconds, running her fingers over the headstone. _Her_ headstone. It has never occurred to her to visit, perhaps having something to do with an unconscious realisation that she is in fact dead and no longer has a place in this living world. She is just so close now, so very incredibly close, and now she is starting to feel weary. As much as she holds the human desire to live, all she wants to do was just move on.

Sherlock and John have gone, left her alone to her memories as they walk back to their present. She is not worried about losing her way. All she has to do is follow the path. She kneels, touching two fingertips to her lips and them pressing them against her headstone, and then she is gone, walking amongst past lives and people who have lived so very long before her and not so long after her.

As she reaches the path she feels for the first time a strong force, pulling her forwards. This is knew, and she follows the pull as she wonders what it means. It feels like a strange game, the farther forwards she walks the more the heat in her chest grows and the more it feels like a hand has weaved fingers through her ribcage and is pulling her along. As a portrait in her eyes, the fog is like a receding tide and the moon is hanging like a bright light globe in the sky, casting borrowed light along the ground and amongst the graves ad setting them awash with gentle light. There is no noise, no wind, no nothing. The scene is dark, painted in black and the darkest of greens, and it is calm in a very disconcerting way.

Ahead of her she can see the outlines of Sherlock and John as they stand at the gates. But there is someone else with them and she walks forwards, until she can see him properly. And then she freezes, every fibre of her being screaming, because it can't be. _It just can't be_.

"Ooh, Sherlock, you've brought a friend!" the man who looks like her husband says, and now she sees that that is all it is. He looks like her husband, but he is not Toby Featherstone, because Toby Featherstone should not look like he is in his early thirties and he definitely didn't sound so... queer. "I thought it would just be you ad Johnny boy to play with when I followed you here, but this going to be much more fun."

"Mim, stay where you are." Sherlock says, neither turning to face her nor gesturing. She hopes that he has some sort of idea of what is going on, because she hasn't got a clue.

"Mim?" the man asks, his thin mouth curling into a frown. "I could have sworn I know a Mim from somewhere."

"Enough games, Jim,' Sherlock says scornfully,' what do you want?"

"I got bored, Sherlock, I thought I'd follow you around for a bit." Jim says this with the calmest of tones, as if he had no other motives.

"What's stopping us from just leaving?" John says, and immediately Sherlock looks scared. There is genuine terror in his eyes, if only for a second.

"Oh,' John says simply,' should've seen that one coming."

Jim claps his hands together eagerly and shuffles his feet, and as he moves she sees something that has no reason to be with this man, something that is the odd one out. His coat moves and she sees what looks like an ivory pin attached to the breast pocket of his shirt, except she _knows_ that it isn't ivory because the pin is singing to her, a silent song that only she can hear. She doesn't know how and she doesn't know why, all she does know is that Jim has her missing rib, and Sherlock has noticed as well because he looks at her with a steely gaze.

"Be careful,' he says with a low voice,' Jim Moriarty is a dangerous man."

There is a certain irony to the fact that Sherlock's enemy is the one to hold her last bone, that the person she never wanted him to meet again was the one person that they had to. She stares meaningfully back at Sherlock and then turns her face to Jim Moriarty.

"You have something I want." She says, and all she has to do is wish for her voice to become menacing. Jim looks a little shaken, if only by her suddenly inhuman voice. He stares her up and down, and then disregards her as a threat. She thinks of menacing again, she thinks of malevolence, she thinks and remembers monsters from bed time stories. And now Jim looks _scared_.

She has no idea if she has begun to look different or if the fear is all in his mind. However, due to the fact that her feet are no longer touching the ground and her vision has gone cloudy as little white particles drift around her eyeballs, she hazards a guess that the fear is most certainly not in his mind.

"Give me the pin." She says, and her voice rumbles like thunder.

"What are you?" Jim says in a half whisper, his gaze torn between fear and curiosity. She takes a step forwards, and suddenly little red dots are appearing in the darkness. She is red all over, completely covered. She takes a step forwards, and there is a quick pressure in the middle of her forehead and the back of her skull, and now she is annoyed that she has been shot twice in the head, in the same day no less.

"You can't kill something that's already dead." She chides, and Jim's face becomes riddled with surprise and understanding.

"Miriam Featherstone,' Jim says and she freezes in midair,' oh, this is- this is just precious!"

As he says this the same things that have clicked into place for him slot together for her, because there is a reason why he looks so much like her husband.

"No."

"Hello grandmother."

_NO._

Now everything has stopped. The air is still, all eyes are on her. Jim looks like someone has told him that Christmas has come early. John looks blank, like the knowledge is still registering. Sherlock is staring at her, his face unreadable.

"You know,' Jim says lightly,' everyone thought that Grandad was mad. He went a bit senile, started telling anyone who would listen that he had killed his wife but he all he had to do was go back to the apartment where they had lived, because he had kept her there, even though she had wanted to leave. Mum packed up and left for Ireland just to be rid of him. She moved back a little while after she found out that he had been hospitalised- oh, she's dead now, by the way. Anyway, moving on, I visited him heaps after we moved back, he was always telling me stories. Told me a really good one about how all I had to do to talk to you was take this little pin from him and wear it with me all the time. Good thing I listened."

She is shell-shocked. The little, darling baby girl that she never knew is now a wonderful young woman she will never meet, and her grandson is a psychopathic killer. For the first time, she lets go completely.

Her hold on the world is gone, and she is spinning. There is nothing that can bring her back. She turns to her grandson, and she _glares_. She wishes that she can kill him, she really does, but she has to hold back because he is her flesh and her blood and she just can't. So instead she walks forwards. Her feet don't touch the ground and her hair is flying around her face. Jim looks terrified and yet oddly composed. He clicks his fingers and suddenly there are tiny points of pressure all over her body. She is thrown back by the force, jerking as bullets rip through her body and riddle her with holes. Sherlock and John dive behind a large marble monument, bullets flying over their heads, and she reaches out her consciousness in a way she never knew she could to tap into the minds of fifteen men who are all frightened out of their wits but composed enough to do their jobs. It only takes a second to send them all to sleep.

There are no more bullets, and she can feel air moving through the holes in her body. It is a very odd feeling. She looks over at Jim and moves towards him again, holding out her hand.

"Give me the pin,' she says,' give me the pin and I'll leave. All I want to do is leave." This is the absolute truth. He has to give her the pin willingly, because despite of the power that she has shown she cannot take it off him by force, she just can't.

"Give it to her,' John shouts as he leans up off the ground and slowly makes his way out from behind the monument,' she's your _grandmother_ !"

Slowly, Jim reaches out into his jacket and pulls out the pin, and she can feel it calling to her. Her feet touch the ground again and her clothes hang in shreds. Somehow she thought that finding her last bone would be more dignified.

Jim motions to drop the pin into her palm but as she makes a grab for it he pulls it back, twisting it around and running his fingers over the engraved patterns, lines that twist and sway like branches in the wind. His face looks drawn, indecisive. Finally he closes his eyes and lets out a sigh.

"I can't believe I'm doing this,' he says under his breath,' just... say hi to grandpa for me."

"I will,' she promises for him, and he drops the pin into her hand. It is thin, smooth and light, and as it glows a soft white she has the strength to stay for just a little while longer. It was unfinished business that kept her tied in the first place and it is unfinished business that keeps her still. She reaches out and gently sends Jim to sleep. His eyes close and he falls to the ground, snoring quietly.

"Is that it?" Sherlock asks from behind her, and she turns to see him leaning against the marble monument. An angel is resting high above his head, its blank eyes closed as it reaches towards the sky, arms and wings outstretched.

"What do you mean 'is that it',' John asks, glancing warily at the sleeping Moriarty.

"I have my bones now,' she says in way of reply,' I can leave."

"You know, I think I'll actually miss you,' Sherlock says. "It was nice having you around."

"You really have your own style of compliments, don't you?" John teases.

She smiles. The pin is singing to her, begging to become part of her body again. She clenches her hand around it and lets it do as it wishes, felling it disappear from her hand in a burst of white light. As it sinks into place she feels a warm numbness spread through her body and is slightly alarmed, because this is happening to quickly to allow all the goodbyes that she needs to say.

"Mim, you're going see-through." Sherlock says. She holds a hand in front of her face and realises that she really is.

"I didn't think it would be this quick,' she says, willing herself to hold on for just a bit longer,' I have so much to say... thankyou. Thankyou both, thankyou so much."

"Not a problem,' John says, smiling softly.

She smiles back, letting out a sigh. She is so very tired, and her body is surrendering to the warm dulling of her senses. She closes her eyes, breathes into dead lungs for the first time, and then lets her body explode in a shower of white and gold. It does not hurt at all.

O.o.O.o.O

End- Part Eight


End file.
